


Mother of a Son

by diabolica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Het, Infidelity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22047346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: Next week Severus will take up the post of Hogwarts’ Potions Master, and then this will stop.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Severus Snape
Kudos: 13





	Mother of a Son

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Subversa for beta-reading this piece and offering invaluable suggestions. If not for her, no one would ever have read this.

Next week he will take up the post of Hogwarts’ Potions Master, and then this will stop. It will have to stop, not least because Lucius would murder them both if he knew. 

Severus doesn’t like Lucius any the less for it, doesn’t respect him any less because his wife …. Well. He has no opinion of the Malfoys’ marriage; he hasn’t bothered to inquire if any sort of rift is at the heart of Narcissa’s game. It doesn’t concern him. His concerns, in fact, are few: to stay alive, to keep Lily alive. To take pleasure, when the opportunity arises, in a woman’s body. Narcissa would hardly care, he thinks, if she knew she isn’t the woman he truly wants.

Her son is just over a year old and her breasts are still full, heavy, the nipples a dusky brown. Severus’s hands chart the fine silver-on-white tracery that indicates where her body once swelled to accommodate that life. He brushes his fingers over her hip, thinking these are the sort of marks one comes by honestly. 

She grips his wrist, hard, and her face turns sharply down towards him. ‘Don’t,’ she says, her lip curling. He worries for a moment that she is displeased, but the curl becomes a small, amused smile. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘That tickles.’

He releases a breath when he sees her expression soften. He can tell by the way she allows her head to fall back against the pillow that she thinks he hasn’t noticed them. He wants to continue, but instead he returns to what he was doing before he was distracted by the delicate network of stretch marks he knows she has gone to great lengths to disguise. If she knew how it mesmerised him, would she be less self-conscious about it? Her only imperfection as far as he is concerned is a lack of freckles, her skin too perfectly white.

He dips his head, brushes the tip of his nose against her clit and is gratified by the pleasurable gasp this elicits from Narcissa. She gives a tiny wriggle, like a kneazle settling in a sunny spot. Severus kisses her again, increasing the pressure this time, and her body opens before him like an invitation. 

He reaches up from his position between her legs and traces the curved underside of her breast with the back of his hand as his mouth continues its work. Her breathing quickens, a muscle in her thigh begins to tremble. Knowing her as he does now, he pulls back, pressing the sensitive flesh before him with only the point of his tongue before her prettily manicured hand—the one wearing a diamond the size of a doxy egg—grips his shoulder and she hisses, ‘Severus.’

He relents, caressing her thigh as she comes apart and then lies still. He rests his head for a moment on her hip and in the silence he fancies he can feel a pulse, a heartbeat—one that isn’t his—thrumming against the back of his neck.

She allows him a moment to rest and for herself to recover, then she pushes herself into a sitting position. And though he would like to stay where he is, with the scent of her—warm, damp—in his nose, he knows what’s expected of him now. She gives him a look, a certain arch of the eyebrow, one corner of her mouth turning up; he sits up, facing her, and then lets her push him backwards. The coverlet is twisted uncomfortably beneath him, but he doesn’t mind because she is moving over him now. Sleek. Inexplicable.

These are her rules; he only plays by them as best he can divine them. 

Her eyes are closed now so he can watch her without fear of the consequences. He can admire her softness, the roundness of her hips under his hands, the little curve of her belly. He wonders if she does this with Lucius, pushes him onto his back, bends him with the force of her will—or if perhaps that is why she comes to him, to Severus. Because Lucius won’t. Because Lucius doesn’t. But the thought is short-lived because then she moves again with a kind of twist, and it anchors him in his body, tethering him only to the present moment. In the animal shiver and stretch of it, it’s as if he’d never heard of magic, of the Dark Lord or Albus Dumbledore. Rocks and hard places. He is spinning away from them, wrapped in a net of Narcissa’s devising; if he has become her prey it is not so she can take his life. No. Narcissa expects nothing more of him than this, the occasional use of his body, which makes him almost grateful.

When the net has tightened and wrung from him her prize, Narcissa sits back, still astride him, and opens her eyes, turns her gaze on him. You couldn’t call it a smile, that angle of her mouth. It’s too covetous, too feral.

She flops down on the bed beside him—a movement less graceful than he would have expected—and together they contemplate the canopy of her marriage bed. A peculiar light plays across the fabric, but from his current vantage point he can’t tell whether it’s the afternoon sun or a kind of magic he doesn’t understand. No words pass between them. What is there to say?


End file.
